


Wibbly Wobbly

by stop_the_fading



Category: The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, New Years, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-24 08:23:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stop_the_fading/pseuds/stop_the_fading
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike had rolled his eyes when he'd noticed the distinct lack of any sort of time-telling device in the Pad. Peter had shrugged when asked about it, and when Mike's curious gaze had turned to Micky, the younger man had simply crossed his arms, lifted his chin, and said simply "We don't have clocks in the Pad."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wibbly Wobbly

"Miiiiiickyyyyyyy~" Peter's voice undulated up the stairs, a long, piping note that dipped and wavered with excitement and intoxication.

Micky whimpered and hauled the comforter up over his face, shoving his head under the pillow for good measure, and whining again when it didn't block out the sounds of Davy and Peter practicing their Happy-New-Years-es-es. Es. He didn't hear Mike joining in, but Mike was kind of strange when it came to joining-in-ing. He liked to be around when things were happening, Micky had noticed, but he didn't always seem comfortable jumping into the celebrations.

The Texan had certainly loosened up some since they'd established their new, crowded living arrangements. It certainly hadn't been all that easy, what with the learning to live with loofahs multiplying in the shower like Tribbles and being forced to label everything in the fridge that was being preserved in the name of science. He'd nearly drawn the line at Mike trying to tidy up his extremely delicate particle physics experiment, but since nothing had been compromised, he'd been generous and not poisoned his new roommate's coffee the next day.

So, yeah, it hadn't been easy learning to share a room with Mike, but he'd heard from a reliable source that Micky was no picnic to bunk with, himself. The reliable source had been Mike, of course, and who could possibly be more reliable?

He didn't know how long it had been since Mike and Davy had wedged themselves into Peter and Micky's existences, but it hadn't been altogether unpleasant. They were growing something here, in the damp, muggy garden of the Pad, something that was a little bit frightening, but also, Micky had to admit, kind of nice. He wasn't sure what it was yet - it was just a tiny, springy green shoot at the moment, on the verge of throwing off teensy little leaves, and there was a sort of nervous anticipation about the waiting. Mostly, he couldn't wait to see what sort of possibly-carnivorous, probably-venomous vegetation they had planted. There was that little part of him, though, that said it would be easier, and probably less dangerous, to pull it up by the root and burn it.

Micky didn't often listen to that part of himself anymore - it ended in nasty, horrible things like breaking the hearts of girls he really liked and losing all contact with family he actually got along with. It wasn't just destructive, it was self destructive, in the way that alcoholism or wearing polka-dots with plaid were.

All-in-all, he was fairly optimistic about whatever genetic botanical nightmare they had seeded, and had eased into life in close quarters fairly well.

Except, of course, for the clocks.

Mike had rolled his eyes when he'd noticed the distinct lack of any sort of time-telling device in the Pad. Peter had shrugged when asked about it, and when Mike's curious gaze had turned to Micky, the younger man had simply crossed his arms, lifted his chin, and said simply "We don't have clocks in the Pad." Mike's raised eyebrow had left him feeling somewhat childish, but damn it, he had good reasons for not wanting those stupid things around!

Micky had never met a timepiece he trusted. That wasn't even some kind of crazy exaggeration, although he knew that if he ever admitted it to anyone, that would be exactly what they'd think it was. No, Micky had a very genuine dislike for the concept of time and the sensation of it passing through his fingers uncontrollably that sometimes bordered on a seriously disruptive anxiety. It discomfited him, the precision with which the seconds and hours and days and years of his life were being systematically whittled away by the second hand and the flip of the calendar page. He didn't like to think about it, because the notion of lost weekends and wasted moments honestly distressed him.

When he'd been younger, living at home, he'd relied on his mother to get him places at the right time and on the right day. She had despaired at his absolute refusal to keep track of things himself, but ultimately, he supposed, she'd found it less stressful to simply take care of it herself.

When he'd been on the streets, scrounging for food and work, things had been much more relaxed. Sure, he'd missed a couple of appointments, but his clients had a habit of finding him when they needed him, so it wasn't really necessary for him to keep track. And Peter wasn't much better - where Micky was adamantly against the institution of time and all it's accoutrements, the blonde simply didn't seem to care at all. There was such a genuine apathy towards things like schedules in Peter's demeanor, it was actually fairly soothing to be around him.

Davy, he'd found, only bothered with things like keeping track of time when there was a girl or a gig involved. Micky could understand that, really, and he certainly didn't begrudge Davy the use of a wristwatch or alarm clock - they didn't share a room, and he could pretend it didn't make him uneasy when the smaller man kept checking his watch every few minutes before a date.

Mike, though. Man, was that guy a stickler for schedules. He didn't even need an alarm clock, because he went to bed and got up at the same time every day, automatically. That, Micky thought privately, was surely a sign that time had too strong a hold on the Texan. The guy was punctual to the point of predictability. He'd even had a specific time set aside for brushing his teeth - 7.15 to 7.35, morning and night.

It was Mike who'd brought the wall clock into their room and hung it above the door. It was a simple, round one with oversized numbers that Micky could see easily, even in the dark. It had a second hand that ticked unbelievably loudly when he was trying to fall asleep. It stayed wound far longer than he thought a clock should, and Mike was very good about keeping up with it, so there was never a lapse in its timekeeping.

Micky loathed it with every fiber of his being.

He could hear it now, above the raucous goings-on downstairs, through the thick pillow he was wedging against his ears, tick-tick-ticking away tiny bits of his life.

It was like the Devil's symphony - clocks and countdowns and time just passing, constantly and unavoidably.

He was on the verge of screaming, he could feeling it bubbling up in his throat, when cool fingers tapped on the sole of his bared foot. He squeaked, wriggling up and around, flinging his pillow with practiced precision at the intruder.

Mike grabbed it out of the air and raised an eyebrow. "Nice try, Mick, but you'll have to be faster than that to get me."

"One of these days," Micky grumbled, snatching his pillow back. Mike rewarded him with a small smile. It was a little surprising, and definitely gratifying, because Mike wasn't really a smile-y sort of a person. Maybe, Micky thought, he was settling in even better than the drummer had supposed.

As if to prove him wrong, the smile vanished like smoke in the wind, and Mike was shuffling over to his own bed wearily. "I gonna turn in, man."

"Not staying up to ring in the new year?"

Mike glanced over his shoulder at Micky, curiosity in his gaze. "No, I don't think so. It's a bit late for me, anyway, and I ain't looking forward to tomorrow."

"What've you got against New Years' Day?" Micky queried. He knew what he had against the celebration of an entire year being behind him, but he certainly hadn't expected there to be an ally amongst his housemates. And for that ally to be Mike...

"Nothing," Mike replied, and Micky slumped a bit. "I just don't really like Tuesdays."

Well, that was just...confusing.

"Huh?" he replied, his cross-examination skills reaching a new low.

Mike shrugged. "I just don't really like Tuesdays, you know?"

"Uh..." No, he really didn't know what it was like to dislike a particular day, but he supposed he could understand the concept of disliking something most people didn't even notice. "Sure. Tuesdays. They're...um..."

"Sneaky," Mike filled in for him, sounding genuinely disgruntled.

Micky stared at him. He honestly couldn't tell if Mike was being serious or not, which wasn't an uncommon phenomenon in that household - Mike was a master of deadpan humor. It made things interesting, for sure, because Peter was about the most gullible person in existence. Mike had learned awfully quickly that if you're going to joke about zombies around Peter, you had better make it sound like a joke. It had taken weeks to dismantle the zombie apocalypse shelter. It had been a good thing they'd had two working bathrooms.

For all that he didn't quite believe Mike, though, something in Micky was relaxing minutely. "I guess I can see how they'd be sneaky," he hedged, squirming until he was curled up in his blankets facing Mike, who glanced at him briefly as he sat on the edge of his bed to take off his boots.

"You guess- y-...of course they are! Monday, see, Monday gets all the blame for the week, don't it? Everyone's always down on Mondays, just because it's the end of the weekend, right?"

"Sure," Micky agreed, because that, at least, he was sure about. Mondays were evil, of course, because that was when you had to go back to work or school or whatever. Not that he did either, but still. It was the principle of the thing.

"And Tuesday just lets it get all the blame, sittin' there all innocent-like, and then WHAM!"

Micky jumped as Mike smacked his hand down on his headboard, looking honestly put-out.

"Tuesday just jumps out at you, like a ninja or something, and ruins your whole week, and guess who takes the fall for it? That's right," he plowed on without pausing to let Micky answer. "Poor, defenseless Monday, who never asked to be the first day after Sunday. Damned Tuesdays."

Blinking at his roommate, Micky tried to think of something to say to that.

Mike had to be joking, right? It was just too silly, too weird...

But then, most of their lives were just plain weird. Thinking about it, they all had little hang-ups; Davy had his oyster-issues (even the cartoon ones in Alice in Wonderland made him queasy), Peter was terrified of radio static (they'd never gotten an explanation for that beyond a whimpered 'ghosts'), Micky hated clocks...why shouldn't Mike have an odd pet peeve?

So he smiled at Mike and nodded. "I can see where you're coming from. That does sound kind of evil."

Mike shrugged, slipping his feet under the blankets. "I just never had a good Tuesday, I guess. Every single worst day of my life was on a Tuesday. That's enough proof for me that they're just wrong."

That sounded much more reasonable, Micky thought, than just thinking Tuesday was conspiring to ruin Monday's reputation, and sounded a lot more Mike, as well. A lot of logic, and just enough craziness to make it Nesmith Weird. Or maybe it was the other way around.

They huddled down quietly, the sounds of Davy and Peter carrying on somehow muffled by the darkness. The sounds of the clock seemed to be getting louder, though, and Micky whined a bit, pulling the blankets over his head.

There was a rustling across the way, and a slight sigh, and the sound of feet stumping tiredly to the door. There was a clatter, and a few clicks, and suddenly, it was silent. Then more footsteps, more rustling, and a tired, "G'night, Micky."

Peeking out from under the linens, Micky peered at the door. The clock was still there, but it was facing the wall, and it was no longer ticking out the deathly march of time.

Grinning, Micky snuggled back into the pillow and sighed. He was well asleep by the time Davy and Peter started counting down to midnight, and their shouts of "Happy New Year!" went unheard by the pair upstairs.

When Mike came down the next morning, though, he found every row of Tuesdays in their calendar cut clean out. He never said anything about it, just as Micky never mentioned the clock, but once in a while, when a Tuesday would come around, he would glance at the calendar and smile.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N - Started on the train to Kingman on New Year's Eve. I wanted to write something for New Year's, since I never got past the brainstorming stage for the Christmas fic I was planning, so I asked my sister to pick a headcanon or two from my list of Monkees headcanons for me to write about. At first, she'd only picked the one about Micky having chronophobia, because she figured that it would make for an interesting New Year's fic, but then she noticed the one about Mike distrusting Tuesdays, and since New Year's Day was a Tuesday this year...yeah. Bonding!fic. Hooray!  
> And it only took me until the 9th to write. Ah, well. Enjoy!


End file.
